By Michael Lanza
The wind blows a steady warning blast heralding the meaner gusts forecast for tonight as we begin backpacking down the rugged “trail,” such as it is, into Owl Canyon, in the Cedar Mesa area of southern Utah’s Bears Ears National Monument. In the first week of May, the four of us wear pants and shell jackets over a couple of top layers—it feels that chilly.
Beginning in a dry draw on the nearly flat desert plateau, the route soon reaches the canyon rim and plunges downward. We scramble on all fours around and between boulders and step cautiously down the steep canyon wall of sand and broken rocks. For long stretches, we take short steps inching down slickrock slabs, scoping out the lowest-angle stone ramps to avoid slipping—although the usual consequence would be no worse than a hard landing on our asses.
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Before long, we drop far enough below the canyon rim to escape most of the wind; the air suddenly feels more calm, though still cool. We all shed our jackets and resume the rocky, wildly circuitous descent, weaving around flash-flood debris that fills much of the narrow canyon bottom. Tangled knots of crushed and unrecognizable vegetation wrapped around standing tree trunks, boulders bigger than a car, and creek banks eroded 10 feet or more above the creek bed, indicating the high-water mark, all speak to the impressively powerful ferocity of periodic flash floods that rip down the upper section of this canyon, where now we see no sign of water, not even cracked mud.
My wife, Penny, our friends Pam and Mark Solon, and I are backpacking the Owl and Fish canyons loop in Cedar Mesa in southeastern Utah’s Bears Ears National Monument.
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Located in one of the least-populated parts of the country—the trailhead lies more than 40 road miles from the closest town, Blanding—the loop is about 15 to 17 miles (I explain the discrepancy in the Take This Trip section at the bottom of this story, which requires a paid subscription to The Big Outside to view) and as shockingly scenic as it is adventurous. Over three days, we’ll hike below tall, red cliffs, towers, and natural arches, over rippled slickrock slabs, around pour-offs and seasonal waterfalls, amid flowering cacti and other prickly desert flora and the greenery of cottonwoods and other vegetation flourishing in the lower reaches of both canyons, nurtured by a surprising abundance of seasonal, clear water that creates an unexpected desert oasis.
Up to 700 feet deep, these canyons are reminiscent of better-known places in southern Utah like the Needles and Maze districts of Canyonlands National Park, Bryce Canyon and Capitol Reef national parks, and the canyons of the Escalante River. And yet, Owl and Fish attract a fraction of the attention of southern Utah’s popular hiking destinations and considerably less demand for a backcountry permit (details in the Take This Trip section of this story, below). Owl and Fish lie within the Fish Creek Canyon Wilderness Study Area (or WSA), which means these canyons possess wilderness characteristics, making them eligible for wilderness designation by Congress and permanent protections.
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We follow the trail through the complex topography in the belly of Owl Canyon, where small, shallow pools and the flowing creek have appeared. The route takes a nearly mile-long detour up and back down a dry tributary canyon to avoid a big pour-off—and to a small pond at the base of that pour-off’s trickling cascade. Not far beyond that, we stop at an established campsite just upstream from a horseshoe bend, at about 5,200 feet.
Evening fusillades of spitting rain usher us into our tents before dark. Dusk brings calm air and a silence broken only by the chatter of birds amid the abundant trees around our camp. But the wind has not yet turned in for the night. It kicks up again as I’m starting to doze off and blows with fury. Like flash floods of air, tree- and tent-rattling gusts stampede through our camp for a couple of hours.
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Nevills Arch
The temperature hovers around 40 degrees Fahrenheit when we emerge from our tents a bit after 6 a.m. on our second day. It’s still cool when we begin hiking soon after 8 a.m., layered up in jackets with hoods up and gloved hands in the wind—which, fortunately, has greatly diminished since last night—and the deep, chilly shade of canyon walls. I like hiking in these conditions: You can dress for this and not break a sweat.
Before long, we reach the stone amphitheater that houses Nevills Arch with perfect timing, just as the sun begins peering over the cliff tops, firing yellow laser beams through gaps in those walls in a way that seems to infuse them with a light of their own even as they cast long, heavy shadows.
While Nevills commands center stage—spanning 140 feet, perched high above the canyon bottom—its supporting cast hardly fades into the background. On both sides of the arch rises a rampart of cliffs and towers with bulbous crowns balanced improbably atop slender necks of crumbling stone. Cacti and other desert flowers brighten the brown earth. After hiking closer for a good look at Nevills, we follow the trail across the outer edge of the amphitheater, watching the arch and towers all seem to shape-shift, looking like completely different formations from every angle.
Beyond Nevills, where Owl Canyon broadens, and with the sun climbing higher, we lose all shade; we can feel the sun’s heat, but the air remains cool and breezy. At the sun-bathed and dry confluence of the two canyons, we turn up Fish.
Less than two miles upstream of the confluence, we begin passing frequent, large pools of water and a clear, flowing creek. Like the middle stretch of Owl, Fish shows off groves of mature cottonwood trees, their leaves electrified in the sunshine, the greenery a striking contrast against the deep burgundy of canyon walls replete with detached towers, rippled slickrock, and an array of sculptured and weathered rock.
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About halfway up Fish Canyon, we settle into an established camp on a bench above big, shallow pools in the creek. Although the map indicates a natural arch located somewhere across the canyon, Mark, Pam, and I walk up and down the canyon but fail to find it. The sun feels intense until the moment it slips behind the canyon wall, but the temperature never gets uncomfortably hot.
After sunset, the wind dies and alpenglow lights up the cliffs above us. Sleeping out under the stars, we’ll all awaken during the dark night, after moonset, to a Milky Way glowing with a rare luminescence against a coal-black sky riddled with stars—a sight you’ll only enjoy in a few remote parts of the Lower 48 with skies as dark as this corner of southeastern Utah.
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Fish Canyon
After a calm and clear night, we’re up boiling water for breakfast soon after 6 a.m. and packing up our gear. Mark and Pam roll out of camp by around 7 a.m., facing a long day’s drive home; Penny and I get on the trail before 8 a.m.
The morning light inches slowly down the faces of Fish Canyon’s cliffs and towers as Penny and I hike up a cool, breezy, shaded canyon bottom. At first, we’re mostly following the cairned route up the creek or alongside it, sometimes crossing over between the two banks, in gentle terrain.
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